Buckles
by Heath Wingwhit
Summary: Sera and the Inquisitor fight, make out, eat cookies and try not to elf up the Inquisition.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Big surprise, right? Anyway, please forgive (or have patience with?) any butchering I may have done to Sera's character. Her voice is tricksy. Random scenes. This is in no coherent order. I think this barely squeaks into T territory.

Edit: 9/8/15 – Now with more edits!

* * *

"What's the matter with you?" Sera asks. "You're looking e_xtra_ elfy." Lavellan frowns. "Oh, now you're doing it on purpose. Whatssit? Some ancient something something, blah blah, past gods, whossit?" Sera smiles but is hesitant, withdrawn. They've just returned from the Fade after Adamant. Everyone is on edge. "**_Buckles_**," she tosses the apple she holds, unleashing an arrow onto it almost immediately after. The arrow catches the apple, pinning it to the wall. Lavellan's frown deepens. Apple juice dribbles from the shaft of the arrow and onto the Dalish tapestry on the wall. Sera laughs. "Better, yeah? No charge."

"I wish you hadn't done that." Lavellan retrieves the arrow, the apple dripping in her hand, arrow in the other. Better to focus on that than the ruined tapestry. Stupid woman. Stupid self. Of all people to be drawn to. What's worse, she knows Sera would mock her for being drawn to someone based on superficial similarities. Her clan would join in the ridicule, progressive as it is. They would spurn Sera, the flat-ear, human lover, who lives in the now, who spurns the past, forgives all human transgressions. Lavellan is not unaware of how Sera's anti-elf attitudes, push her fiercely towards her own Dalish culture. "You never think."

"Oh, so that's where you're coming from, is it? I think, yeah. Here, now. People, things. That are alive. You want to dig around on burial grounds, whine about how bad 'the true elves' have had it, go ahead. Leave me out of it." She yanks the arrow from Lavellan, the feathers brushing along her palm.

_We wouldn't have you, _Lavellan nearly says. She bites her tongue. Her clan might believe it, but she doesn't. Somewhere, deep down, she thinks that sort of thing is the very thing Sera fears.

"So… why are we here?" Sera walks in loopy eights, tapping the arrow gently into her palm. She looks at the tapestry. "Your carpet looks better now, thanks to my handiwork," she giggles, looking to Lavellan, her gaze dipping lower, "be funnier if I knew, yeah? Don't yet. Soon, maybe?" she sounds optimistic before setting the arrow aside and walking to her, taking the apple from her, taking a bite, following it with a kiss. Her lips are juicy, glistening, tasting of apples. "You look constipated," she says tenderly, "shame to waste a pretty face like that." She throws the apple aside now and Lavellan watches it roll on the floor, still as Sera lifts her hand, licks the juice from her fingers. The gentle suction is disorienting. "This could be dirtier. More fun." Sera releases her suddenly and Lavellan blinks. "Ugh, what is it? You look like Elfy."

_She's turned her back on what we are, _Solas said,_I have no insight into what she could want. Something fleeting and human, no doubt._

He was angry. Lavellan isn't sure she blames him. Were the words meant to insult Sera? Yes. Surely. But were they also meant to needle into her? To cut her in places she can't reach? "I'm not sure what'd bother you more," Lavellan says, "the prick or the ears?"

"Don't be daft. The ears." She crosses her arms.

Sera's been insufferable since they returned from the Fade. Lavellan regrets she was there. Something agitates Sera, throbbing beneath the surface. Her eyes, so sharp, have been skittish, glancing. "This whole elf hatred thing is getting old."

"Don't hate elves. Hate elfy elves. Dalish. The elfy gods this, the shim—"

"Shem—"

"Whatever— that. Things happened. It's done." She pouts. "You bring me here to fight— ? Cause – I don't want that. Things were supposed to be different with us, yeah? You said." She paces. "This whole Inquisition thing is taking too long. Just—hurry up and solve things already. I signed up for that—not to go traipsing through the Fade and fighting… demons and—and nothing!"

"Sera—" she touches her face. "We're out of the Fade. It's done."

"Your hand's sticky," she giggles, "when are you going to let mine get the same?" Lavellan clears her throat, fire racing up her dusky cheeks. "Your eyes are like those holes in the sky—same color—brighter. Can't tell if they're going to rip me to shreds or—land me someplace w_eird. _Same thing, yeah? I can't see through them, like the sky. You give me shivers."

Lavellan licks her lips. They've yet to sleep together. She isn't sure why she puts it off. She wants it as much as Sera does. More, maybe. She wonders if it's some part of her that Sera would despise or if she's worried about becoming closer with a woman who holds nothing in respect, particularly the beliefs she was raised with, the woman who spurns everything Lavellan has ever given value. "I was going to get you a gift," she rambles, the words spilling out of her. Sera blinks. "You got me that hat thing—I wanted—" she tries to find words, "I wanted something to show you—" Lavellan breaks away from her. "Anyway, I couldn't think of anything. You're… _so weird_—"

"You're one to talk," Sera snaps. Lavellan wishes she hadn't said it. "Anyway, it's why you like me, yeah? Not like the others. You want a regular girl, Josie's in her office, writing letters to some Lord Arsehole. No, that's weirder," she mutters the last.

"I went around asking everyone—," she continues, determined to get the words out, wanting to get the fear out into the open lest another demon takes it and feeds, "and they all…" they all had things to say. None encouraging, not really. "Someone said—someone recommended—suggested," she doesn't know how to put it, "'something human and fleeting'."

"Show's what they know. It's all qunari for me." The preference stings. Why? Why should she care what Sera thinks? Sera's eyes flash. "Who said that? Vivienne? Bitch!" Her words are fast and hot as daggers, "No. No. She don't give a piss about me. Nothing to her. It was Elfy. Him, yeah? Prick! He would say that. Everyone knows he wants you. An elf, a 'real' elf, only one around, not me, running around with humans, not minding them. You know, I think he liked all that Fade-y stuff too much, it was creepy! You care so much about what he thinks, you two take it up, yeah? Run around being elfy and kissing dirt, hugging your bones."

"Sera."

The blonde's eyes glisten, her jaw squared tight. "Why's it matter what he thinks? And not what I say? I knew it'd be like this—"

"It isn't like— it isn't like any way," Lavellan says. "Creators, Sera—" she doesn't miss how Sera's face scrunches up at 'Creators'. "You just—you scare me, all right? I don't know what you want. I don't know anything about you. You won't tell me. I know what you don't like. And what you don't like seems to have everything to do with me. This mark on my hand," the nerves in it burn, and she isn't sure if it's the pain or the conversation that makes her eyes warm, "my being Dalish, my beliefs, everything! You don't like any of it."

Sera glowers at the floor, maybe at the apple that's rolled past them. "Well, that's why you're so stupid. There you go again, making everything about yourself and your elfy this and that. I like _you_, all right? Don't have to agree on everything. Always told myself I wouldn't date some stupid, bony elf and here you are with your pretty face, making things hard, making me worry about scary shite. You shouldn't care what Solas thinks. You want to know how something is, forget the books, forget that other shite. I said you could ask. But you haven't. You overthink everything. It's rubbish." Her lips go into full pout again. "I was hoping you'd brought me up for kisses."

Lavellan's shoulders slump, tired and exasperated. "I did."

"Got a shite way of doing it." But Sera goes to her, arm around her frame, holds her so tight it hurts, holds her so tight she can't breathe. "Less talking next time. More kissing. Elves are so damn fragile, yeah?"

* * *

"Oh, look, you're up." Sera smiles brightly. Lavellan rolls onto her side on the cot, a small groan pushing past her lips. "Another Andrastian miracle. Making the rounds, that kind of talk. Your talky people are pissing themselves happy, between all the fighting."

A small fire burns outside of the tent. It's the thick of the night but darkness is kept at bay by the small lights. Snatches of whispers are carried to them on sharp gusts of winds. Sera sits with a blanket around her shoulders, poking at the fire.

Lavellan squints at the dark before sitting.

"Thought you died back there. You didn't right?" Sera laughs nervously. "Everyone's saying that but that's— that's fucking mad, yeah? You didn't die. Just—missed all that snow. That's what happened."

"That _is_ what happened," she shivers. If she was cold before she hadn't noticed it, slept through it, maybe. Now she shakes and she can't quell it. Her teeth chatter. The tips of her ears burn numb. She lets out a shaky breath. "I'm no spirit."

"Good! Don't want none of that around. Spirits." She shakes her head. "Better to deal with people. Can deal with people. Arrows. Right? All the rest..." She looks up at the fat moon. "I'm on guard duty," her tone reveals exactly what she thinks of the position. "Like anyone would miss it if the big fucking dragon came back. Probably turn us all to ash. Maker. Thought he was going to chomp you. Don't know how you made it out of there."

"You mean you don't believe all this Maker nonsense?" Lavellan asks. Sera frowns at the question. "I was just lucky." The words have become a mantra. Crazy things keep happening. Each more outlandish than the last. Soon 'I was just lucky' will start to sound disingenuous. But how else to describe it? These aren't her gods. These are the gods of the Shem who nearly wiped her people out. Why would some Shem god raise a Dalish to such heights of power? It's more likely that it's witchcraft. A spell gone wrong, maybe.

"Luck, yeah! That'll get you here or there. Gotten me out of scrapes but it runs out. Luck and smart, sort of the same, innit? You can make it the same."

Lavellan yawns and tucks herself into the cot, pulling her limbs to herself. She can't get warm. The tip of her nose has gone numb, her elbows are too cold. She blows on her hands.

Sera looks at her. "Never seen so many people scared like that before. I'm not saying it was Andraste or some elfy god but— I'm glad you pulled through okay. Not much of an inquisition with no Hairy Herald." She reaches beneath Lavellan's blanket and takes Lavellan's hands, blowing hot air onto them. "Hoped they were going lower?" She chuckles. "I guess you're pretty, for an elf." Sera's warm breath spills over her hands again but it's Lavellan's face, every other piece of her that begins to go hot. Sera rubs Lavellan's hands carefully.

Lavellan focuses on the softness of Sera's hands, heat slowly emanating from them, takes a glance at the crude, odd girl with the severe haircut. "Thank you," she mumbles, embarrassed, flustered.

Sera tucks her head down, a faint, chagrined smile pulling at her lips. "Least I can do, you put it all out there, on the line," her face scrunches. "I had things I wanted to say. Can't remember now. Too late, too cold," she shakes her head, "makes my head hurt when the sky is like this."

* * *

The Mayor's been sentenced to death. Word has spread around Skyhold of his crimes. The Inquisitor's decision has been met with great approval.

The execution stage has been set up and Skyhold inhabitants have already begun to gather. Lavellan wonders at the decision. Certainly she's killed men for less and often. The Mayor is guilty of an unforgivable crime but his cause was just. He tried to save a village. Maybe he should have explored other means. How many innocents died? At the end of the day he couldn't give them the truth of his guilt.

Lavellan sits on the cobbled fortress tower looking down, lost in thought, wondering how things came to be this way. If only she hadn't been sent to the Conclave. Hands dig into her sides, and she jumps. For a frightening moment she lurches forward. Nothing separates her from the hard ground below, where people look like specks. There's a muffled, giggled laughter and strong arms around her waist yanking her back. "Got you! Just barely, anyway."

Sera...! Lavellan jumps back onto safe ground. Sera, grins, looks down below. "Long way down. Probably just turn into a wine sac then. I've a funny story about that— starring Monsieur Shifty Face—happened in Val Royeux— no, Denerim—"

"You can't do that!" Lavellan's heart still pounds violently, making it hard to get her breath. "You almost killed me."

"That all it takes? Dragon, shite, big hole in the sky, shite, Coryphy-spit, shite— Red Jenny, a little tease – that'll do it?" She chortles. "Big people, little people, all moving like little bugs to see the show. Good thing that, finishing the mayor."

"You approve of something I've done? That's a first."

"Nothing done yet. Anyway, why so serious? You're not so bad. If you are, you're fooling a lot of people, but I don't think so." She folds her arms and looks below at the people. "Shits like that get what they deserve. Should. But it's not enough. It has to be personal." Lavellan arches an eyebrow. "The Mayor. Got to kill him yourself." She turns away from the platform and looks at Lavellan. "This the way it starts. Get other people to do it, you forget what it's like, people turn into ideas and things. Before you know it, you've changed, you're big people. Do it long enough you forget the small, become bad people. And you know what happens next? Arrows."

"We've got an executioner." Lavellan says.

Sera scowls. "But, arrows!" She growls the words. "You're good, yeah? Almost as good as me. That's a lot for an elf."

"For a city elf, maybe."

"Why'd you have to say something like that and ruin it? Suppose you can't help yourself." Her mouth twists disdainfully. "Whatever. Point's the same. Point! Get it? Arrows?" She waves it away.

"I can't kill the Mayor."

"Why not? He turn into something scary? Some magic thing? Haven't seen anything you can't kill. Ooh, there's Coryphyshit."

"Thanks for the reminder." She sighs. Cassandra, Leliana, Cullen and Josephine have insisted she be mindful about whom she speaks to regarding war room talk. The political bullshit that comes from the Inquisition. Truthfully she agrees with Sera but she's been reminded over and over again what the Inquisitor represents and how she must be seen. "I can't do it. Everyone already thinks the Dalish are savages. The Herald of Andraste can't run around killing people."

"What are you on about?" She laughs. Her laughter always had a touch of mania to it. Or maybe Lavellan doesn't understand the unbridled joy in it. She's always been somewhat sullen and reclusive. "You're letting those wankers tell you what to do? Thought you were the big hat now. You've killed lots of people already."

"It's different."

"Because others weren't watching?" Yes. "Ugh, look, I like the advisors but they're the big people of this operation. You can't turn like that. You won't fix anything if you do."

"We're both here for the same reason. Getting things back into order. But to do that— I have to go along with the political bullshit every now and then." It's not like she has much choice in all of it. They say she does but what's the alternative? To walk away from the Inquisition and let everyone think she killed the Divine and all those people?

Sera sighs. "Arrows. Arrows, arrows, arrows." She pushes away from the wall. "Some big people were small people once. Not sure where you fit but arrows are one size fits all." She looks sad. "Don't screw it up."

* * *

Solas nestles his toes into the ground. Lavellan stoops beside him, removing a glove, her fingers skirting over the grass. She's missed taking this time, the smells of the grass and fresh soil, stopping long enough to feel the wind thread its fingers through her hair. She glances up. Solas looks at her, his usually stolid face softer. He smiles. "There are so few of us left," he says. "The Fade holds powerful histories. But the people are eager to forget. Their history, their identities. It is easier to lie down than to stand."

Sera chortles. "Wait, wait, you fucking serious? I'm not an elf because I don't walk around barefoot brooding? I like shoes. Ground's sharp, case you haven't noticed. Spitty, too. Glob glob snot. You wear shoes, you brood less. Warm feet spares the rest of us bitching."

"I wear shoes." Lavellan says. She doesn't know why she says it if for no other reason than to stop the budding tension between Solas and Sera. Solas keeps his arms at his sides, his fingers lightly curled.

"Don't know what your problem is, then." Sera doesn't take her eyes from Solas. "You're talking down to me, saying I'm not a real elf. Think that's the first I've heard that? Elves never done anything for me. You elfy ones hide away in the woods, hide away all the time cause you're pissed off but you don't help anyone. People are starving you know, people, elves, yeah, humans too—people are people. Why's it gotta be this or that? Humans or elves, mages or Templars, qunari or—ugly people—? It's fighting, pointless fighting because someone always has to feel 'better' than someone else."

"You speak, Sera, as if you have any knowledge of what I or others have struggled."

"You? Struggled? Never have. Wouldn't be so damned superior if you had. You ever been to an alienage?" she steps closer to him, "you ever seen how they have to fight for scraps of food to eat? You pisser, as if you'd ever step foot in one."

"I suggest you stop before you continue making a fool of yourself," Solas returns evenly.

"You act like I'm the one making an arse of myself, when it's your lot, head buried in forever ago who've stopped listening to the world and… everything around us." Lavellan thinks to point out that this is the 'elfiest' she's ever sounded. Sera seems to know and looks away, flustered. "Forget it. Why have talks when you can throw stories? Enough talking. This is boring." She kicks at a rock and stalks away.

Solas looks after her, gaze steady but cold. Lavellan stands, fingers grazing hesitantly at the back of her neck. "That could have gone better," she says. She follows Sera's figure but she never turns back. Lavellan tries to pin reason to the disappointment.

* * *

Sera is light. She has a talent for ambushing Lavellan when she has no idea she's there. Maybe it's her fault for meandering through Skyhold, lost in thought. The fortress was a find and she is grateful to Solas for it. He tells her of its rich history but both are disquieted by the stone walls.

She doesn't think of stone walls now. Sera has pushed her past a wooden door, into an abandoned tower room. Dusty, smashed furniture is scattered. Dust particles light in the wan, winter light that streams in. Her back is pressed to the wall. The curve of the stones push against her but not so tight as Sera. Their breath fogs in the air, white swirls between them. Like spirits, some life essence. Something Sera would hate to be told.

Sera's mouth is on her own before Lavellan can contemplate further. Her kisses are always exuberant, something hungry about them. Sera says they spend too much time talking, too little time doing the rest of it. Lavellan doesn't agree, though she can't say she minds this. Whatever heavy thoughts trouble her, fly away as she returns Sera's kiss.

Heat and tongue whisper along Lavellan's neck. She feels herself go lightheaded. Sera's fingers dip into the sides of her trousers, yanking down, settling between her legs. Sera chuckles throatily. "Bu-tter, Buckles," she half sings the stupid words.

Lavellan blinks, dizzy. "We should lock the door."

"Ooh," she chuckles, "And here I thought you were going to go on about decoration or whatever." Decoration? Decorum? "Don't need to lock the door. No one's going to come except for you," she grins, speaking between kisses, the other hand yanking at the hunter's coat from Lavellan's shoulders, "and me, if we both get lucky. Come on, let me have it." Lavellan doesn't know what she's talking about. Whenever Sera's near her senses go. There is already suspicion about them but Lavellan worries what the advisors might say. She can't listen to them about everything. No doubt stupid rumors will be abound. "Your coat," she insists.

"It's cold." She sheds it despite her protest, letting Sera drop it in front of them. It's increasingly difficult to say no to her. "Sera—" her mouth, lips are too evasive. Lavellan is half-mad without the contact.

Sera kisses her hot, as if to sate and sooth. She teases, takes, but knows when to give. "Don't you worry about a thing. I've got something to make you melt." Sera's hands slide down, the rest of her, until she's kneeling. "Honeysuckle," she whispers.

* * *

"You seen her?" Sera asks Bull. The qunari chuckles. They passed a qunari mercenary group minutes ago and Sera's eyes still gleam with excitement, particularly taken with a silver qunari woman, approximately two feet taller than Lavellan. "Shite, she could snap me in half. Bet I'd like it too. _Woof. _Sure we can't make a stop or nothing? You don't have no qunari business or something?_" _

Lavellan shrugs, as if to shed Sera's words. Her interest in the Jenny is perplexing, annoying and unexpected. "We have to get to the rift," Lavellan explains. It's some distance ahead and they'll likely reach it as the sun begins to set. She isn't sure if now is the best or worst time to have to battle a horde of demons.

"The Inquisitor's right," Bull says. "Business first. Pleasure later." Sera laughs agreeably. "Hey, Boss. What did you think of the qunari?"

"Not elfy enough," Sera volunteers, she hurries forward on the sandy terrain, falling in step beside Lavellan. "See those horns? Could grab on to them, yeah? I could…" her eyes go dreamy, color flooding her cheeks. Lavellan forces herself to look away. "You ever get hot for anything? Or you too noble and serious to get dirty?" Lavellan frowns, focusing on the rift in the distance. "' I'll romance mother nature!'" she mocks. "Problem is, too busy with your head up your own arses instead of someone elses—or—their legs, between, I meant, agh." She scratches her ear absently.

Lavellan wills something smart to come to her lips, something clever to put her in her place, something somber and meaningful to make Sera think. But nothing comes. Maybe Sera reads something in her gaze, something revealed, meant to be kept hidden. She lowers her face and averts her eyes.

"Let's just go stuff it full of arrows, yeah?" she moves ahead.

Bull follows, slapping a hand on Lavellan's shoulder. "We seal that rift, drinks are on me, Boss." She looks up at him. He's a tower of muscle with impossibly large horns. Never knew many qunari before. She likes him but sees nothing in his easy going nature, or any other qunari, that she can identify with. Something, anything Sera might like. "I know a shortcut back to Haven. Past the rift. We won't have to retread ground."

Her face burns hot. She's grateful but can't say the word. Stupid pride. Stupid everything.

* * *

The thunder's loud enough to shake the ground. Bolts of lightning flare in the night. Rain patters on the canvas tent. The howling wind whips the tent walls. Lavellan sits, gnarled bow beside her, quiver of arrows next to it. A candle burns dangerously, its flame thrashing side to side. The tent entrance flaps open, letting in a gust of cold air, rain and Sera. "Shite, fuck, shitey fuck shite!" She enters, dripping wet, hurriedly tying the entrance to a close. "Nice night, innit? Leaves the nips sharp enough to cut glass," she shakes, much like a dog might, sending water in every direction. She spots the bow. "Ooh, did I interrupt your special time with your precious thingy?"

"What are you doing here?" Last she knew, Sera was in a tavern with the rest of the group. The noise was… disconcerting. She might be the Inquisitor but she hasn't grown accustomed to crowds stuffed into small buildings. She spent years isolated with her clan. The more boisterous nights were gathered around the campfire while the Keeper told stories. This is different. She spotted a tear of green in the sky or the beginnings of one, at least, and took her tent to slip away. Solas gathered his things as well to join her. _Cassandra would never forgive me if I let you go off on your own. _It was his company she expected, more stories from the Fade. To hear anyone else tell the same stories—she might be frightened, but his voice is soothing, his demeanor, the same, puts her at ease.

Sera has the opposite effect. "You ran off. You're a little person now. Not like a dwarf, but sort of, compared to the big people. But you're getting bigger. You get bigger, they get scared, send sneaky types after you, this whole Inquisition goes bust and then back to fighting, kill, kill and still with a big hole in the sky, nothing gets better. And that's no good." Lavellan struggles to keep up with her torrent of words. "Figured you wouldn't mind, yeah? You and me in a storm. Oh, shite, if it were Cassandra she'd be so wet right now, the big heart!" she laughs. "All that romantic stuff gets her good. Read those books of her? They're _so _bad, but get me tingly sometimes. I always skip to the good parts." She kneels in front of Lavellan, who wonders if Sera knows she's shaking.

"It's cold out there," Lavellan says. She looks around, grabs a blanket and shifts, easing it around Sera's shoulders.

"You don't do magic, do you? Way you move sometimes, seems that way." She shakes her hair out, wrinkles her nose as if to sneeze, doesn't. "That some elfy bit?" She sighs. "Shite, I hate that about you. Sometimes wish I didn't, see. Make things easier. I've tried not to notice how pretty you are, or your arse, the other bits," she laughs quick and nervous. "But I know how you look at me, others know too. I hear them talk, the pricks: 'Inquisitor's daft, to like some eejit like that, yeah? Not very pretty. Not very smart.' Me, not you. Say the opposite thing about you—unless it's me and you they're talking about.'"

Do they say things like that? Cassandra has implied as much, Solas as well. Still, Sera sits in her tent, come to her in the middle of the night against all reason, on her own. "I don't think any of that's true—"

"Get off. I heard them. I got ears too, big ones. Smaller than yours though," she peeks closer to get a better look—

"I mean—" Words have never been her strong suit. She keeps them guarded. She's always spoken through action. It's why she reaches forward, clasping Sera's face in her hands, kissing her soft. Sera's face is wet with rain, cold, but they tremble, breathing unsteadily, kissing tentatively. For how long she doesn't know, until her lungs burn. Lavellan breaks the kiss but keeps close. "I mean, I don't give a damn what anyone thinks or says. I like you. I like you so much it hurts."

"Not supposed to hurt," Sera says quietly, "unless it's that kind of good hurt. Elbow deep," she laughs nervously, "_Buckles._" She's still as Lavellan undoes the kerchief around her neck, presses a kiss between the curve of her jaw and her neck. Sera sighs. "You going to tease me?"

Lavellan nods, claiming her mouth again, her fingers gingerly undoing Sera's clothing, fingers glancing with quiet intention, refusing to let Sera yank at their clothes, kiss her bruising and hard. She breathes some Elven words and gets a scowl from Sera. "My way tonight. You don't think I'm strong, Sera, but I am."

Sera catches the words with her lips. The winds shake the tent. Lightning flares but they remain steady. "That so, Herald? You going to show me?" Another nod. "Can I touch you now?" she murmurs and gets a lingering kiss in response. Cheeks flushed, Sera takes reins of the permission granted but her movements, through difficulty, concentration, are slow. "Let's take all this rubbish off. I want you, yeah? Skin to skin."

* * *

"Ew! What the shite! It's got a fucking sword through its head!" Sera jumps back, tripping over a thick tree root and falling flat on her ass. Lavellan smiles, prodding the bog unicorn closer to Sera who continues to scramble away. "I don't like it; it's creepy!" she picks up a mound of dirt and throws it at the unicorn who whinnies, "get it away! Buckles!"

"It's not going to hurt you." Lavellan runs her fingers over the 'unicorn's' head, it's sleek and oily. Sera's eyes are wide, the bow raised in front of her like a shield. A stream of obscenities push past her lips until, relenting, Lavellan hops off the unicorn, stooping in front of Sera. She lowers the bow but Sera immediately raises an arm to shield the sight. "Stop that."

"Its skin is rotting off! That's a demon, I tell you! I'm going to toss up my guts! All over you if you don't move—"

Cold washes over Lavellan, noticing how sweaty and pale Sera is. She dives out of the way just in time for Sera to retch off to the side. Creators. "Fine, I'll get rid of it—" she says. The bog unicorn looks at the two. Lavellan doesn't know what it is. It showed up in the stable one day, rusty sword through its head. She likes the thing—no one thinks to come at her when she's on it, and _yet… _"Go on," she tells the unicorn.

The bog unicorn rears on its hind legs, eliciting another shout from Sera before turning and going. "That's right, you creep!" The unicorn stops, faces them anew and Sera blanches. Seemingly contented at her terror, the unicorn goes. "Fucking, shitey shite nuggets! Andraste's tits," she clutches at her dress material before lunging at Lavellan, throwing them both into the grassy plains, arms wound tightly around her neck. "Keep that demon shit around and people really will start to believe you eat babies for breakfast!" She straightens, hovering over her. "But you got rid of that creepy piss for me—that's—" Her nose crinkles. "EW, did you touch it!? You smell!"

Lavellan sighs. "You just threw up."

"Throw up's not demon horse with a sword through its fucking head, is it?" She flops beside her, scooting closer to avoid the vomit. "Let's find a stream and get clean. Nice and elfy, right? You like that. Follow it up with a good screw. _I _like that." She lunges at Lavellan, breathing on her.

"What—stop that!" Lavellan struggles against her, gets the upper hand and forces Sera onto her back.

Sera laughs. "That's what you get for not sending it away sooner! We could have been screwing already. Some animals are better off staying dead."

Some?

* * *

"You look like you're trying really hard to hold in a fart." Sera proclaims. Irritated, Lavellan stands and takes the branch above her, pulling herself up another five feet. With relative ease, she moves up another ten feet. Sera, awash in the glows of the setting sun, measures the span of branches above her before her shoulders slump. "That's cheating."

"I want to be alone, Sera."

"I know. Problem is, you'll really shove that pretty head of yours even further up your… nicely shaped, Dalish arse. But that's no good." She jumps, grabs a branch, struggles. If she fell, it'd be a twelve foot drop. Lavellan takes two quick jumps down, holding herself at an angle, one hand wrapped tightly around the branch. Sera pulls herself up, shakes her head, sits on the branch, looking warily at the ground below before turning her face up to Lavellan. "I heard what Elfy said to you—"

"You were spying?" she isn't sure if she's too tired and confused to be angry or if the revelation isn't a revelation at all.

"Not on purpose—yes on purpose," she mutters, "I had a plan—it involved lizards—look, you want to hear what I have to say or not?" Lavellan isn't sure she does. She considers the question but Sera doesn't afford her the time to think about it, she forges ahead unbidden. "So what if that rubbish on your face meant your Dalish 'true elves' sods enslaved each other? I mean—if you think about it, it's pretty funny. All that bragging and for what? Oh, right. This is supposed to make you feel better."

"You're doing a bad job."

"I'm not done! Patience, Herald. Or something. Where was I? Right. Here's a riddle. It's really good. What do Andraste, the great Herald, Empress Celene, some Keeper twat somewhere and Coryphyspit all have in common? Give up? They've all got arseholes! Doesn't matter if some of them think they piss divine light, most of them just shit all over you—as most arseholes tend to do—they're all the same. Templars and mages, inquisition and non-inquisition, big people, little people. Arseholes everywhere."

"What's your point?" Lavellan asks sharply.

Sera gets to her feet carefully, her balance wobbling but taking two quick steps forward to grab onto the larger frame of the tree, closer still to Lavellan. "Point is, you're supposed to be smart and I'm supposed to be stupid—but there's never been a group that hasn't been shit at some point or another. People. We exist to shit and be shat on, yeah? When it's bad. But sometimes you gotta wipe it off and keep moving. Maybe bag it up and leave it on some Lord's door, yeah? You can't waste it. The shit. Waste!" she shakes her head. "Point is," she says again, a hand stretched out as if to set herself straight, "you're not a slave—except maybe to all your Dalish elfy stuff. And those marks, maybe they're stupid, maybe they mean something, maybe they don't. They hurt, yeah? Brag about it, do you? So hold on to that, and piss the rest. They're pretty anyway, if nothing else, there's that."

Lavellan bites her tongue, a fog seeming to sweep up her body, emotion she cannot give name. Ever since the Inquisition started her entire identity has been in question. Her people retreated from society. It made them strong and noble. So she was told. So she thought. Now she smiles and talks with confidence when it's demanded but part of her is always scared, always uneasy. Sera and Solas. She was drawn to them because they're 'like' her. But they're not. And they make her question who she is.

"Did that help?" Sera asks.

Lavellan takes a breath. "It helped," she says softly.

Sera's full lips tick up. "Well, it doesn't mean I like you or anything," She begins the climb down, moving tentatively. "I'll race you down! Last one down is an elfy mc-stink face!" ten feet from the ground, before Lavellan can take a step, Sera leaps.

* * *

Lavellan didn't leave candles burning in her room. Their light alarms her and she doesn't wait a moment longer to retrieve the bow from her back and nock an arrow. She stops shortly, seeing Sera's figure on the bed. She doesn't know the reason for the visit but a smile pulls at her lips. She sets the bow and quiver aside, approaching the bed quietly.

Sera rouses, shifting to a sitting and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, though it clings to her voice. "You're back." She trudges off the bed, her steps somewhat uneven and winds her arms around her, face nestling in her shoulder. "I told myself I'd stay up and wait for you, but your stupid bed is so soft and smells so good," she rambles the words sleepily.

"The war meeting was boring, by the way, just like you said." Lavellan holds Sera close, hand burying in her hair, feeling the heat come from her. "I thought you were playing jokes on Josephine tonight." Sera, had spoken to her at length about breaking into Josephine's records and adding 'improvements'. "Don't tell me you've repented."

"That meeting pucker your brain?" she pulls back, arms still draped over her shoulders. She pouts, head dipping again. "Plan was, to add drawings, little things, the usual. But Blackwall shows up and then the two are making kissy kissy face and 'my winter bosom is like a spring of a rose thorn' and that sort of shite. No sex," she complains, "anyway, I got _bored _and I hid, waited for them to finish, and I just **_sat _**there, thinking of you, on purpose."

"Oh, no."

"I know, right? Anyway, I go and fall asleep. And I have that dream, again! The dream with you—the one—" she rubs at her eyes, "I hate it! I don't want to see it. I don't want to see it again." They've gone over this before. Sera's been having more nightmares. For all Lavellan's reassurances, Sera finds them distressing. At least Sera's going to her now, instead of running away. That's something. "I joined yeah, thought you were all touched by Andraste or some shite. Stupid. But now we're here and I love you and I just want to keep loving you—for—for as long as we can, right? That mark on your hand, it's what brought everyone here but I hate it and I want it gone. Long as you have it, there's going to be trouble and I like trouble. Trouble's fun but—but not when it's about you and it's always going to be about you. I'm worried all the time! Which is stupid because I've done lots of things without even thinking. Oh, that's something new, yeah? Ha, ha. But it's different with you. There are bees in my stomach. Feels that way! Stinging and twisting my guts into – I just want to fall over. I can't run out of puke, I've tried. And the only thing that can make it go away, the stinging bees, is you but the second you're gone they come back stronger than ever. On top of that, you're not even a dwarf, they're stocky, you know, or humans—they're just—lucky, yeah? Or a big sexy qunari. No, you're an elf. Why do we all have to be so small?" she demands. "Why couldn't you have been a big weird tall one? And don't tell me you're tall for an elf, so what? Doesn't mean shite. You need muscles, like Bull and—"

"Let's go to bed."

"What? No. Screwing only helps so much. I mean, yes, let's but—Buckles—"

Sera's desperation is mounting. Lavellan kisses her and Sera stills. They kiss, fear, love, the blinding stars of the night as company. Lavellan guides Sera to the bed, kicking her boots and jacket off in the process, their lips never separating for longer than a breath. She flings the covers back from the bed, laying Sera down and sliding in beside her. She palms her face, looks down at Sera's glistening eyes, her flushed cheeks. "Corypheus will get what's coming to him. I'll seal that stupid rift and then all of it will be over. You won't have to be scared anymore."

"You make it sound so easy. It's not. You're the Inquisitor. The world will never give you up. You're a big person now. Biggest there is and I love you and want you but soon everyone will want something from you. And when they don't get it— I'll kill them—I'll fill their fat heads and arses full of arrows—but what if I run out, what if—"

Lavellan kisses her neck. "You and me against everything, everyone," she whispers. "I won't lose you. I won't lose this." She'll tear the sky in half before she lets that happen. Sera pulls her close. Lavellan tastes tears. Sadness, fear, rush toward her. The fight will be soon. The world has gambled everything on her. What if she can't beat him? What if she can't seal the rift…?

"Ellana." Sera's voice is small and worried.

Lavellan nearly breaks. She takes a breath and buries the emotions. She won't be scared. She can't be scared when Sera is terrified. She's brought hope to all of bleeding Thedas. What good is it if she can't make the one person who bloody matters believe it? "No more Honey Tongue?" she pouts. "I think you need reminding. I know you don't like words—I'll show you in other ways." Sera giggles, surprised, tears still bright in her eyes.

Lavellan joins their mouths again. Sera sparks, wildfire, her touch, her tongue, benediction, glory. She never believed any of this rubbish but Sera does, seems to, anyway. That's all she needs. She'll set it right or die trying. Better her than Sera. Better her than Thedas. Sera will never forgive her if she dies trying to fix this big, stupid mess, but it's not like she'll be alive to hear about it. It's not like that wouldn't be worth anything.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh. You're here. Right. I suppose you want to talk or something?" Sera downs the alcohol in the glass, grinding herself into the bench. Lavellan sits opposite of her and can nearly make out the fine hair on Sera's neck standing on end. "More questions about the Jennies? Don't know what else I can tell you," she shrugs, "we do things, fun things, to bad people. Fun for us, anyway. Can't put it simpler than that."

Haven is getting larger by the day. Refugees come in, seeking to get a look at the Herald. At best they're surprised, most often they're disappointed, sometimes they're angry. It's only recently that Cassandra's suspicious looks have started dying down. The advisors are occupied, particularly Josephine who has to spin hay into gold. Maybe she's succeeding. People keep turning up. Lavellan doesn't delude herself into thinking anyone cares for her. She is an instrument. The world is at war. Once she sets things right she can return to her life. In the meantime, she has to make do. There aren't many elves around and Sera has made her opinion on their people clear. Lavellan hopes Sera's words were bluster. If nothing else, she hopes she can change her mind.

"I'm not here about the Friends of Red Jenny," Lavellan says. Sera lifts a hand, waving Flissa over. Flissa comes over, full of smiles, tensing when she sees Lavellan. Lavellan smiles tightly, declines the offered drink.

"Come to chat me up, have you?" She seems to smile and frown in one. "Not to be a bitch, but I'm not interested in sharing. Don't really know you, yeah?" This time the smile is real. "Bet you're not used to hearing that. Not since you've been touched by Andraste or what not. Naughty girl. Bet everyone wants to get inside you, figure you out."

Lavellan speaks carefully. "And you don't?"

"Not really my type," she shrugs, "sure you're all right and all but see how everyone is looking at us right now?" Lavellan glances around the room. Everyone is looking. "They're probably wondering what weird elfy shite we're up to. Hate that. Rather avoid it. Not really into elfy things. Don't have the stomach for it. But listen to me go on. Did you have something for me?"

"I just wanted to check in on you."

"Yeah? Why? Nice enough of you, I guess." Her eyes burrow into Lavellan. Lavellan wonders what she sees, wonders if she wants to know what Sera thinks of her. "So, word is you were at the Conclave, walked clear out, with Andraste behind you or something?" she laughs, fidgets. "Weird, yeah? But why was an elf even there? Your type doesn't usually get invited to that kind of thing."

"My type?"

"Elves. _Elfy elves. _You're not a mage or nothing—which is good. Don't know if I could stick around then. Elfy mage types—can't imagine how insufferable they'd be." She blanches. "Wait, there's Solas." Another grimace. "So you have questions. I answered some. How bout you? Or is your plan to keep stalling?"

Lavellan can't recall what Sera might have asked. When she finally remembers, Sera's looking impatient, having drank half of the refreshed drink. "Why I was there…? At the Conclave? That's… it's private."

Sera crosses her arms. "Private? But my business, all yours?" She scoffs. "Right, I see how it is. Do you tell Elfy? Need to be a higher breed of elf or something to hear the news?"

"I never said anything like that." Sera may be an elf but she isn't a _real _elf. Not really. She insults her own people for reasons Lavellan can't put her finger on. She dislikes Lavellan simply for being an elf, particularly for being a Dalish one. She can't tell her that she was at the Conclave spying for her people. Would she understand? Would she condemn her? And if so, would she run around and tell everyone about it? The advisors in charge? The Inquisition has formed. That she's an elf hurts more than helps. She doesn't want for things to get harder. "Don't put words in my mouth." She says too sharply.

"Sure," Sera says. She picks up her glass and stands, "I need some air, Herald. Talk later."

* * *

"You bought all that?" The laughter teases and mocks in one, "You really want something to believe in, yeah? Put on a good show, you did. All those nobles wanted to eat you up. But I'm the only one who gets the pleasure. What was I saying? You either believe in all that shite, all that Game business, or you can sell water to a fish. Either way's, scary. And now we've got Briala in there. I mean, she's funny but a right liar. Don't know what you were thinking. Wait. I do. Elf, elf, elf."

The Winter Palace is a bloodied mess but none of the surviving masked nobles seem to be terribly affected. They're happy to return to the wine and champagne, to the celebration and the Game. Josephine and Leliana tutored her for what seemed like ages on the way the Game works, what she can say, what she shouldn't say. Elves can't play the game, not enough power to, Leliana told her apologetically, Briala confirmed the same, but Lavellan needed something to go off of. She surprised them tonight but hasn't come away feeling better or boastful. Maybe it's boring to prefer directness. "It was the right thing to do."

"You believe that?" Sera folds her arms over the balcony, mirroring Lavellan, looking out into the dark courtyard. "You can't be that stupid. Briala doesn't care about elves. She cares about herself. Whole thing was about pissing on Celene, which she has, heard. It was just a hate sex thing. Bet it felt real good. Always does, with the hate."

Lavellan looks at her. Sera's been bored out of her senses for the majority of the evening. She took the fight as a much needed break for some excitement. Throughout the night she's made colorful commentary about all the attendants. And now, despite her complaints, she seems only happy that the night is coming to a close. "Is that something you do? Hate sex?" Sera's snicker turns into a giggle. "What? I'm serious."

"Course you are. Not like we could do that if we wanted, yeah? I'm not human." Sera likes to poke at her in this way. Lavellan isn't sure if she resents how wrong or how right she is. "Got lots to say about it, but maybe not tonight. Can't say we did a good thing—but we did _something,_" she sighs, "good for the Inquisition, right? That's all the talky people care about. But nothing's going to change. You talk about clans and such but everyone here is always out for themselves. Even your sort."

"I don't want to fight tonight."

"We've done enough for tonight. Not as much as I'd like but enough," she smiles lopsidedly, "anyway, your face is crunching up, so let's not talk about it right now." She slides closer to Lavellan. "This place and everyone in it is stupid but I saw what they wanted, some trophy thing, hero type, you. Bet that's the only sensible thing in their heads. I'm not sharing though, so tough shit for them."

"You say that now but you denied me a dance." Lavellan asked multiple times, in quiet enough tones but Sera was steadfast in her refusal.

"You're not the only one the talky people talk to," she shrugs.

Lavellan frowns. "Did they say something to you?"

"Nothing new. It's the way it is. Don't like it but I like you, so I'll put up with it. Anyway, tonight was important. Not like I'm good at any of this shite but it would have been funny, just to see the look on their faces. Elves, elfying their fancy ball up. Like they mattered or something. And the nobles would just have to stand there and eat it. Arseholes puckering everywhere."

Lavellan winces. She's becoming accustomed to Sera's crassness, thinks she loves it, but can't help herself regardless. "So let's do it now," she takes Sera's hand, sees her tense and look nervous. "You said it yourself, all the nobles would hate it." So would the Inquisition. It doesn't matter though. She's done enough, hasn't she? How much more will they ask of her? They stopped the assassination. That should garner some points for them. Enough for a bloody dance.

Sera's laugh is sharp and surprised. "Yeah, sure, but I'm rubbish at that sort of thing. Never been nothing fancy about me." Lavellan takes a step closer, settling a hand to the small of Sera's back, capturing her earlobe delicately between her teeth. Sera purrs. "Fine, let's go so we can get to the fun stuff."

* * *

They stand in the war room, Lavellan and Leliana. Lavellan clutches the letter in her hand. She recognizes Keeper Istimaethoriel's handwriting, reads over and over again how the writing stops abruptly. Duke Antoine of Wycome has been blaming elves for whatever plague that's going around and killing humans. He blamed her specifically, those like her, before setting his sights on her clan.

"What is the meaning of this?" As hard as Lavellan fights to keep her voice steady, the anger bubbles through, her voice, her hand shakes. "You said you would handle it, Leliana. I trusted you to take care of this. The Duke has retaliated. His soldiers have blamed my clan for the assassination. They've killed all the elves in the city and now they're going after my clan! Do they live yet? Does your bloody network know that?"

"The operation was not without risk, Inquisitor. Sometimes—"

"No! Don't 'sometimes' me. I wanted to handle this personally. You would not allow it. You said the Inquisitor could not be seen intervening. You said it would be difficult, but I _counted _on you. My clan could be dead! I may be the last Lavellan left, because of your screw up, because of this bloody Inquisition!"

"You wanted a solution, I provided one to you. It was time effective but… there are repercussions. For all we know, the Duke would have gone after your clan regardless. And still… I am sorry. It is not the way I would have wished for this to play out. I know it seems hard but have patience Inquisitor. This is not over yet."

Lavellan stares at her, eyes brimming with tears. Leliana takes a careful step towards her but Lavellan turns, yanking the door to the War Room open. Sera jumps back, sheepish, not able to meet her eyes. Lavellan stomps past her. Everything is spinning. She can't breathe. Josephine, busy with paperwork jumps to her feet, calls out her name but Lavellan moves past, exits and heads towards her room.

Somehow she makes it there. She has clenched the letter so tightly in hand that she's half crumpled, half torn it. She slaps it down on the desk and straightens it, best she can, seeing drops of water on it. A touch on her shoulder and she rears back. Sera stands apprehensively, fingers loosely twined. "Creators, Sera," her voice is raw and hot, "don't you bloody start with me—"

"Wasn't going to—" she looks surprisingly sheepish. "Heard. Can't exactly stuff Lady Nightingale full of arrows. Thought about it," she adds more quietly. "You all right?"

"I should have gone. I shouldn't have sent Leliana. I should have— Creators— It's my fault." She sinks to the floor, the air seeming to have gone out of her, body left dizzyingly light. She buries her face in her hands. Soon, she feels more than sees, Sera drop next to her, arms wrapping carefully around her shoulders, hand stroking her hair.

"We're not sure yet. Don't know if they're gone or not. Your Dalish can fight, I bet. Better than some noble's soldiers. Not like the flat ear city elves, yeah?" She shh's her, pressing kisses to her hair.

"I never wanted this. I just want this stupid mark to be gone. I just want to go back to my clan."

"I know, luv. I know."

* * *

Maryden gets to her feet, slamming her leg into the table in the process. "Inquisitor! To what do I owe—" she looks at the lute and grabs it swiftly. "Would you like a song, Your Worship?" Lavellan frowns. She wishes people would stop calling her that. "Perhaps, there is a favorite that you have in mind?" she looks at the group in the table she sat at, shooting daggers at them until they mosey on their way. "I've tried to write some about you, of course, but Lavellan, Inquisitor and Herald are difficult to find rhymes to." Even now she seems to mull the titles over in her head.

"I wanted to talk to you about Sera's song," Lavellan says, nodding at the table. Maryden grins brightly and takes a seat, lute still in hand. "It's… quite catchy." And complimentary. Lavellan hasn't asked if Sera has involved herself with the bard. What else could inspire such a song? Clearly Maryden has some affection for Sera. Lavellan doesn't blame her, she's afraid she too has become… well. She isn't sure.

"You like it? It's popular, to be sure. Sera's never said anything about it," she grimaces. "You spend time with her. Has she said made mention?"

Sera sits across the room at a table, beer in hand, shooting daggers with her eyes. Lavellan smiles and lifts a hand in greeting. "She loves it. Hums it constantly when we're out on the field." Maryden's eyes light up. "So… is this your way of wooing her?"

"Oh, surely I couldn't discuss such things with the Inquisitor—" her face goes red before her gaze shifts up. Lavellan looks back. Sera stands there, beer in hand, glass tipped dangerously to the side, as if ready to spill it on Lavellan's head. "Sera! Hi. It's so good— um, to what do I owe—"

Sera smiles though her eyes are dangerous. "Bard girl. Would you mind pissing off? Need the touched Herald for some… private time?" Maryden, whose face Lavellan couldn't imagine going redder, does. She lets out a stream of words, slamming her leg into the table again before scurrying off. Lavellan tells herself not to think anything of Sera's words. More often than not, she just says things. "You're chatting her up. Why?"

"That was rude, Sera."

"Oh, another lecture. Let's hear it."

"That was it."

They stare at each other, challenging until Sera shrugs. "Well, good. Hate to have my buzz ruined. So, answer the question. You and the bard—what were you going on about?"

"I was curious for the source of inspiration behind Sera Was Never."

"You daft? Song's about me, it's got my name in it, don't it?" she whispers heatedly. "Miss all the stuff about the arrows and… the enraging nobles bit? It's _so creepy._" She tears her fingers anxiously through her hair, looking around the tavern curiously.

"Is it? That's too bad. I told her you were a fan."

"You what? You twisted twat," she's crestfallen before grinning. It transforms her face to something radiant, something different than the usual scowl, anger and contempt. Lavellan's heart jumps a beat. "You've got something coming to you, Inquisitor. Wouldn't plan on relaxing any time soon."

"More relaxing? Yes. This inquisition has been a nice retreat from all my real world troubles."

"Shut your face," she leans forward on the table, her face close, so close Lavellan can feel her breath. Lavellan looks at Sera's lips and then averts her eyes lower, settling on her breasts before quickly lifting them to meet her eyes. Are they a honey color or green? Something in between? Sera's gaze is as piercing as any arrow. "You're blushing, Inquisitor," her voice always lilts, tilts, springs, when she's teasing.

"Should I get you a lute? You can serenade me?"

Sera blinks, sits back, laughs. "You're bloody mad!" She gulps down the remaining of her beer. "Still," she settles her arms on the table and leans forward, "good to know you had my name on your tongue, not hers."

Before Lavellan can ask, Sera's abandoned the table and moved on.

* * *

"Is that flour on your face?"

Sera slaps at her face, wiping fiercely before rubbing her hand on her pant leg. Lavellan looks at her curiously. "Did I get it? Ugh. What's on?" She takes a seat beside her but offers no explanation for the flour. Lavellan can only assume that it was part of some prank. It might be best that she doesn't know. "Want to go back to my room?"

"Your room?" It's late at night. The Inquisition never sleeps but this is as close as it can get. No one is sparring. Even the shouts of the tavern have died down. Lavellan sits at the gazebo, a candle burning on the stone bench she sits on, reading a book by the paltry light. She isn't entirely sure how Sera found her. "Did you want to talk?"

"Again with the talking. We can _talk_ _here_."

"So let's talk."

"Not what I had in mind, oh touched one. Touched one," she giggles, "I wish, yeah?" she slides closer on the bench. Lavellan shuts the book, realizing too late that she's already given some leeway in the simple act. "Lots of ways to get to know each other. This way's important, too." Before Lavellan knows it, Sera's lips are on her neck. She tenses, melts, feels Sera's fingers along the curve of her jaw before those same fingers shift her face, guide their mouths together for something hot and yearning. Sera's hand touches her knee, slides upward. The book falls from her lap and Lavellan breaks the kiss in surprise. "What? It's just some book. That was good, right? Can't do that enough."

"It was more than good," she agrees. She can't recall a time she's ever wanted anyone so desperately. There is caution at the back of her mind. The Inquisition is new and she isn't used to being at the head of anything so large, so important, her decisions, world shaking. Her clan always worked together closely. They were isolationist and losses were minimized. The fighting with the Inquisition is deadly and constant. She never knows with certainty that she'll walk away unscathed, that her companions will. Leliana and Josephine have given her reports on Sera (all defaced). They wonder at her loyalties. Cassandra worries she's a thief. Lavellan pays it no mind. They'd likely say the same of her if she wasn't the Inquisitor. "So… have any siblings?"

"Don't want to talk about that. Don't want to talk."

"Sera."

"Don't know," she says irritably, "parents didn't want me. Maybe they're dead. Maybe they just left me. Doesn't matter. They don't matter. Don't want me? I don't want them. So don't talk to me about how elves care about their people." She shrugs as if it doesn't matter but her features are strained. "So's, your turn now. You ever mess around with a flat ear, or am I your first?"

Lavellan always finds it strange, how the very words and terms she grew up, sound so different and confrontational when uttered by Sera. The words are a judgment, meant to show how much better her people are, stronger, realer, somehow. But when Sera says the same words, throws them not with venom, but with mocking, it all seems like rubbish. "City elf," she corrects, though stiltedly. "You're my first," she tries to make her voice light and cheerful but she's embarrassed. She doesn't know if it's because she limited herself before or because her clan would cast judgment.

"Right. Well, not many of your kind around, had to make do, did you?"

"This isn't about making do."

"Maybe not," she seems to sulk. "Ones before me, what were they like? They don't smile, right, unless they're making jokes about my type. No, that's not right, we're the ones letting the old ways die out, have to take us serious, yeah?" she shakes her head. "So, what were they like? What do you like? Not muscles or big breasts, we don't really have that."

Lavellan furrows her eyebrow. "You want me to tell you about their hair and builds?" It wasn't what she had in mind when Sera asked the question.

"What about humans?"

Lavellan laughs caustically. "Sure. If I wanted to be exiled."

"That's dumb."

She doesn't know that she agrees. "They were serious." The Dalish aren't known for being pranksters. It was always so normal to her until she met Varric and Sera. Others. The Inquisition is mad but she doesn't think she's ever laughed as hard in her life. "And they were men."

Sera scrunches up her face. "What you going on about? You won't let me show you but I'm not passing for nothing. I'm a woman."

"I _know._" She shrugs. "It's not a big deal but I was… there aren't many of us left and I was seen as a… I don't know. A figure." A role model, maybe. "It was expected."

"You just do what's expected? Right. Guess so. Charging this Inquisition, yeah? Even if you don't want to."

Lavellan squirms on the bench. She has always been a rule follower. Then again, respecting elders and working with the clan is just what's done within the Dalish. If you don't, you're a pariah. "We're dying out."

Sera laughs. "Yeah? Ever been to an alienage? Crammed in like sardines, they are. Plenty of elves left. Not your type of elves, but they are. Anyway, that's stupid. What are you planning when this is all over? I know how you can't stop thinking of your people and your old ways. I'm not interested in being a way to pass the time. I like you a lot, all right, so do us a favor and don't waste our time." She stops, hands folding in her lap, biting her lip. "That's not what this is, is it? Tell me now before… just."

She takes Sera's hand. "That's not what this is."

* * *

Lavellan's voice goes flat. "But you're joking."

They've returned from the temple of Mythal, shaking, wounded, alive somehow. After a too long session in the war room with the advisors about what everything could mean, what the plan for Corypheus is and the possible ramifications of having Morrigan drink from the Well of Sorrows, Lavellan has moved to the tavern, anxious to see Sera, eager to have a moment of peace and quiet away from it all.

Sera is skittish, nervous, laughing the way she does when she's on edge. "Don't do this. Come on, easy enough, right? Just… say you don't believe it. None of that stuff. Gods and … all that temple was, was demons. All of it, shite."

"How dare you?"

"You're going elfy again…" Sera paces helplessly. "What's there to be mad about? Those elfy, now dead idiots didn't even think of you as a real elf, so…"

"What?" she snaps.

"Look, I'm tired. We both are, right? After all of that, makes sense. Let's just… I don't want to talk about it. Let's forget it. Let's… I just need you to say it. Please, Buckles, just say it. Don't ask for much—"

"You don't ask for much?" She doesn't quite bellow the words but she sees the patrons of the tavern turn in their direction. Lavellan steps into the room and shuts the door behind her. "Do you know how much I've had to give up for this Inquisition? My people are gone, Sera! And as long as I've lived, this is the past we have been trying to reclaim. Our history and people were stomped out by the bloody march of the Maker you'd prefer to believe in, because our beliefs conflicted with that of your Andraste!" Sera tugs at her bottom earlobe, can't quite look at her. Lavellan shakes, takes a breath. "Sera…" she puts her hands up, tries to calm herself, hadn't expected this, thought they were past this sort of thing. "I'm not asking you to believe it—"

"Good. Because I don't. Never will. But… can't be with you if you do," she says. Her fingers tease at a loose string on the sleeve of her dress. Lavellan goes cold, focusing on the string, the subtle quaking in Sera's voice, but try as she might, she can't ignore her words. "Thought of it—makes me feel crazy. Kind of like your eyes. Not as good. I need you to say it—"

"No." She takes a step forward—"You just—" she thinks, "look— history has always been strange and… we can't explain everything. I can try but—"

"But I'm just too stupid? I don't want any of your elfy explanations, all right? Wouldn't get it if you tried, because that's right, I'm stupid. I don't care. I am stupid. Rather that than believe in all this shite. You want to believe it, stick to it, make things, change things because of it. What's your "glory" anyway? Squatting in the woods, playing in the dirt, stinking like halla's arse, doing nothing, except complaining. You don't bother living and I need to live! What's the point of being stuck in the past? I can't think of—" she stops, bites her lip, shakes her head.

Lavellan's mouth is dry. She wonders if Sera knows or cares how each of those words stabbed into her, the pain, excruciating. "This is over." She can't find any feeling in her voice. "I won't give up my people, my history, everything I believe in… for someone who won't try to understand. You won't even try to give, after everything I have given for you…!" The emotion seeps into her voice, igniting, moving to uncontrollable. "Fenedhis! All this time—everything you said we had—for nothing? For this? You coward! You believe in this stupid mark on my hand, will follow an Inquisition you knew nothing about, but you won't trust me, won't even allow me my belief? Have you ignored everything that's happened up to this point? Everything else, fine, you believe it, but it's elvhen, no, we can't have that," her eyes are hot.

A flash of frost moves over her, freezing her voice, her words. "Everyone was right, about you, Sera. You _are _stupid. And so am I—for laying with a quick, flat ear, shem lover, who'd pick just about anyone over her own people. _Seth'lin. _Corypheus is left. Don't bother coming. Go play pranks with your Red Jenny friends and think you're making a difference. I don't want to see your face anymore."

A long silence follows. Lavellan's throat is raw. She feels diseased. She never thought she could keep so much hatred inside of her. The poison flows through her, leaving her disoriented. Doesn't Sera know that this is how she routinely talks to her? Doesn't she notice how it fucking hurts? Sera often speaks, out of ignorance or fear. She believes those things. Or thinks she does. Maybe Sera's entire problem is that she's afraid to believe. Lavellan doesn't believe any of the horrible things she's said. Maybe she did once but not anymore. She had a history of hate and contempt sleeping in her head. The sting of Sera's rejection brought them to the surface. She knows Sera's insecurities and she picked at them. She wanted Sera to hurt the way she's hurting. She doesn't know who's worse. _You are. You're worse._

"Well, didn't get half of what you bloody said," Sera's voice is watery, "but know enough real language to know I was right all along. You don't come up with something like that unless you'd been thinking it already." Sera picks up a box beside her, white, wrapped in red ribbon and throws it at her. Lavellan is still, immobilized as it slams into her, ribbon coming loose, cookies spilling out. A letter flutters free. A dull pain forms on her shoulder, the corner of her chin but the pain doesn't matter. The cookies, scattered like ashes on the floor paralyze her. "I don't want our stupid 'us' cookies anymore. Don't want them. Don't want you," tears seeps past her eyes, "now get out!"


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: In efforts to be contrary, the last four sections progress in chronological order.

* * *

Lavellan opens her eyes. Sera hovers over her, naked, a gleam in her eye, a dagger in her hand. Lavellan tries to focus, drowsiness still holding her. She fears, momentarily, what Sera might do. Sera has expressed her contempt of all things elvhen and others have questioned her. Her heart gallops. Sera twirls a lock of Lavellan's hair around her finger, rearing the knife back and slicing the hair free.

Lavellan brings a hand to her hair, where it's been brutally cut. She recalls Dorian asking Sera if she cut her own hair. Oh, Creators. "What the void are you doing?"

Sera, unworried, hops off the bed, bare assed and skips her way to her puddle of clothing. She kneels beside her rucksack and stuffs the stolen lock inside before returning to bed, jumping onto it with a ferocity and slamming into Lavellan. The air goes out of her lungs. Sera, still grinning, slides over her. She's heavier than one might imagine. Lavellan finds her weight comforting. Her heat and smoothness. Sera pushes the hair back from Lavellan's face. "You weren't supposed to notice."

"Subtle Sera. Right. I forgot."

Sera smirks. "'Subtle's' for tits and pricks with no balls or spine." Lavellan arches an eyebrow. "You're thinking about it. Don't. I got some. The good bits," she shifts slightly and Lavellan sees Sera's pale, freckled shoulder lift before her hand slips between Lavellan's legs. Sera's hands are surprisingly strong… dexterous. She's caught her eyes, holds them as a soft sigh moves past Lavellan's lips. "How's that for subtle?" her voice is husky and soft. "Bugger it, right? Bugger you," she leans down, tongue teasing at Lavellan's lips before they part. City elves kiss deeper. Maybe it's just Sera.

* * *

Sera walks out of Haven, thumb easing along the string of her long bow. Lavellan climbs the steep hill, Cassandra, Solas and Blackwall at her side. They may not be elves but their stoicism is welcome; it is something she's accustomed to. It makes her feel safe. Sera is ever a mystery. She startles to see them now, lowering her eyes, glancing away.

"Sera?" Cassandra asks. "Where are you going on your own?"

Lavellan notices a satchel on her person. A chilly breeze pulls at their clothing. Haven is always cold. "Go ahead," she tells the group. They exchange looks before nodding and moving into the town. Lavellan approaches more cautiously, her own fingers sliding nervously along the bowstring of her bow. "What's going on?"

"Shit. Wasn't supposed to see you. Thought you were in the Hinterlands, foraging for leafy things." She takes a breath. "I can't do this—this… Inquisition thing. Everything's too scary." Lavellan waits. "I know I made you play a game to find me in Val Royeux— and I know I promised to do things. It was fun but this isn't anymore. Thought it'd be more about kicking nobles, stealing their knickers and putting arrows through their danglys. Less about the demons. After what happened—in that weird buggy future—" Lavellan remembers Sera's terror, her eyes glowing red, the way she died to fix the present. Lavellan hasn't been able to forget either. "You don't know. Don't know the things I seen. Easy for you and Dorian, innit? Right easy to make it go away and pretend it didn't happen. But guess what—it happened. To me and Cassandra and Leliana. Can't make it go away, much as I want, can't make it, much as you want. It happened to me and I remember it. Coryphy-spit screws it up—or you do—same thing. You die, he turns the world into a creepy red lyrium garden. You don't know what it was—I could _hear _it, talking. I mean—it's like a rock, right? _Rocks aren't supposed to talk_."

"We prevented that future. You don't have to worry about it anymore."

"For now. But pissers like Coryphyshit don't stay hidden. They keep coming back and trying because they're crazy and no one wants to play so he makes them play. Fucking bully."

"So maybe you stay and all his trying is for naught."

"For not? Knot? Rope? Don't think they make the kind hold's something like that. Or maybe they do—some kind of weird magic-y thing, but don't want to mess with that none. Something can hold something like him—can't be good. So's…" Sera shuffles where she stands.

Lavellan exhales softly. "If we're going to set things right we need good people on our side. And you're good, Sera." Good enough, anyway. She didn't think a city elf could ever wield a bow and arrow like that. Lavellan wants her on their side, rather than not. "If you leave, others will start to think it's okay to give up. I…" she doesn't know what to say, has never said much of anything at all. She isn't good at inspiring speeches. She still doesn't want to be here. "What if I invoke the power of the Herald or something? Does that mean anything to you?"

"Don't know. Maybe. Could." She lifts her head up and growls. "I was supposed to be gone, you know. And you were supposed to be playing in the dirt, frolicking in the trees." Lavellan crosses her arms. "But really, that's that? Not going to kick me out or take my ears or teeth or nothing? Heard your type are savages."

"Heard your type dies young and can't read. Assumptions are fun."

"Not very nice, Oh Lady Herald." Sera narrows her eyes. "Fine, I'll stay. I want things back to normal, yeah, and if I leave it to you and your talky people, you might make a new world, hand it to the people who made this one." She turns on her heel sharply. "But I'm not returning the food. Or the things. Or the lard. Can't make me."

* * *

It's past midnight and they've been in the kitchen for hours. Sera arrived before Lavellan, going around the kitchen staff has put into place. They're covered in flour, much like every other kitchen surface. The fires in the stove roar and despite the sharp winds heard from outside, inside, it's warm and it smells like sugar. Neither one of them can seem to stop smiling.

It's strange. Feels like a spell somehow. Nothing could be so warm, so perfect, so contented, when Corypheus is free, when the fabric of existence is in danger. They make too many batches of cookies and Lavellan presses Sera to a counter, fingers threading through her blunt hair, the tips of her ears before kissing her. Sera hooks an arm around her neck. They carry on like that, losing track of time, whispering as if not wanting even the spirits to hear what's between them.

The most recent batch of cookies burn. "We'll make more," Lavellan tells Sera when she frets. _We aren't cookies_, she wants to say but the thought makes her feel suspicious and she keeps it to herself. She removes the burned cookies and moves to the trash bin, lifting the lid, pausing at the plate that's been dunked there. Perfect and pretty, frosted in white: halla cookies. Lavellan looks at her. "What's this?" A beat. Finding them and having them imported from some faraway place seems like something Josephine would do. "Did you find these and throw them out?"

"What? You think I'm that mean? Well, maybe. But no. I made them. For you." Her gaze becomes distant. She does the thing where she looks to her, through her in one. "Stupid, innit? Who cares about halla? Big chickens with horns, that's all."

Lavellan isn't sure whether Sera means chickens with horns are the only ones who care for halla, or whether halla are only chickens with horns. A stupid thing to get hung up about. Both are wrong. It'd be nice if Sera bothered making sense every now and then. Though Lavellan understands enough now. "You made these…?" Halla cookies. Her lips part. "That's…"

"Not a big deal. Make lots of things. Make lots of people dead. Make you come. That's easy. Love that." She twines her hands and paces and all too soon it's impossible to imagine that only minutes ago they'd been so happy. "But now you've got that stupid look on your face. So happy."

"I'm… sorry you make me happy?"

Sera continues, not listening. "It's touched, because I should make you that happy, without any of the elfy shit. I was human, or a dwarf, sexy qunari, 'xact same except for the ears—would you want me?"

It always seems to come back to this. "You think about this more than I do."

"So answer it. Simple question, yeah?" She takes the stack of cookies from Lavellan and dumps them into the bin, the halla cookies buried beneath. "What am I doing? I don't even know anymore. Kissing and screwing an elf when I said I never would. And now I'm doing other stuff—stupid stuff—just because I want you to like me. And I want to understand you. Which is shite. I keep thinking—I need to keep doing things, to make you keep liking me—I don't do that. Never have. I've always liked me. I don't want to change, and you shouldn't want me to change me either."

"I don't want you to change." Lavellan says. Sera looks at her hard. Lavellan's cheeks burn. Because Sera questions her? Because Sera sees through her…? "Relationships are about compromise. I'm not perfect, Sera."

"Oh, I _know. _Wouldn't know it with the way everyone goes on about you. That kind of things gets to someone's head, especially a Dalish, whose heads are already big enough to begin with. Sure, you talk about compromise, but have you, with me? Even once? Because I've never seen it."

A lengthy list of the ways Lavellan's compromised is at hand. The pranks at the expense of her advisors, the way she keeps her mouth shut and is wary around other elves, afraid she'll get some look, some happiness that Sera will read into. It's pathetic. Why sacrifice so much? In the end, she isn't sure there's a right answer. If she hasn't compromised, Sera's making all the sacrifice, if she's compromised, she's stooping to dally with a city elf. _Why can't you just love me? Why can't we just be us? _They want the same thing. She's fairly sure of it and still they manage to bicker constantly. "There's nothing to compromise. I've never met anyone like you, Sera. I wouldn't change a thing."

"_Fuck me_," Sera says vengefully, then hardness in her voice eases to silk. "Hate when you use that honey tongue to make me feel …" she stops, shakes her head. "Can't tell if I love or hate fighting with you." She steps to Lavellan, wrapping her arms around her, burying her face in her neck. "I'm sorry, Buckles." Lavellan runs her fingertips along the back of Sera's neck. "Sometimes I shoot arrows at shadows, you know? Sometimes I can't remember and I feel fucking mad."

* * *

"Inquisitor. A word, if you please." Cassandra. Lavellan waits on the balcony before finally returning to the bedroom. Cassandra stands tensely at the top of the stairs. She looks around the room. "I see Josephine spared no expense by way of decoration. Still, it is important to keep your morale up. The biggest room in Skyhold is hardly payment for all the good you've done for the Inquisition."

"Are you buttering me up, Cassandra?" she smiles ruefully. Near a year later and she can't recall a time Cassandra has ever visited her after hours and certainly never her bedroom. Truthfully, she likes the Seeker very much—a strange thing given their meeting, Cassandra's interrogation. She could have sworn the woman would beat her. A shemlen, an aggressive one—but noble, an actual one to boot and well-meaning. Earnest. Her honesty, her passion, is inspiring. Next to her, Lavellan feels lesser. Selfish. False. How could a human make her feel this way? "What's wrong?"

"I do not know how to say this. It is awkward."

That is part of Cassandra's charm. She bites her tongue. "Is it Corypheus?"

"I only wish," she frowns, strides forward, stops shortly. Lavellan tilts her head to look at her. "I will get it out of the way." And still she cannot speak. Lavellan waits. "You cannot let Sera go." Lavellan scowls, pulls back. "Please, listen."

"No."

"Blackwall told me the news. He saw Sera gathering her things. Her room is destroyed. I suppose that is not a surprise. I cannot tell you how to lead your life. I thought—I know of your involvement—your previous involvement," she seems to trip over the words, "but at this stage we need all the capable hands we can get. It is Corypheus, Inquisitor," she uses the title to hammer her point, "and we do not know what we will need. She is valuable. I have never seen anyone who can match your bow except for her. Put your personal feelings aside and focus on the Inquisition."

"Like you put your personal feelings aside and nearly stomped Varric into the ground when you found out he lied about the Champion?" she asks. Not that she can talk down to Cassandra too much on the matter. Lavellan is the one who left Hawke in the Fade.

"That is—"

"No. I have let all of you run my life for the past year. Cullen, Leliana, Josephine, you, always with what I can and can't do, should and shouldn't do. This is my decision!" Lavellan says and frustratingly finds her eyes watering. "Can I not have that?" Cassandra waits, expression benign but determined. The perfect face for the next Divine. Lavellan paces. She cannot explain the things that have happened between them. She has always been private and proud. Sharing this particular shame would hurt more than heal. She cannot explain to Cassandra how Sera has hurt her. She is not an elf, she is not a Dalish elf, she can never understand. She cannot think of a human equivalent, a way to describe it and she realizes, foolishly, that she wants Cassandra to understand, that she wants Cassandra to be on her side. Her throat locks up and for minutes only silence passes. "It hurts to look at her. It hurts to be around her. I can't focus. Please understand."

"I do. I have… noticed your unhappiness. And I am sorry. You are my friend, Ellana. My friends are few. But you have survived and endured things that would cripple or kill others. You have done a hundred impossible things. I know you can do this. I am not asking you to… rekindle any… relationship. But if anyone can get her to return, it is you."

"She's gone?"

"Yes. She's gone."

* * *

Lavellan takes the bog unicorn out of spite. Cold, heavy rain falls, drenching her in seconds. The ground is insufferably muddy but the unicorn is used to meandering in the muck. Lavellan insisted on going on her own, despite the protests of the advisors. No doubt Leliana has sent some small bird to trail after her but given the low visibility and the ground she doubts even the best spy could stick too closely to her. They forget she spent her life as a hunter. She knows how to find and how to hide.

She thinks of Sera's room. It was a wreck. Sera's journal was flung into a corner. The sheet music from their dance in Halamshiral was torn in half. _I danced. She danced. We danced. _She flipped through the journal, found the pictures Sera drew of them and thinks of Vivienne's words. _She's nowhere clever enough to be after you for your wealth or position, so it must be true love. _

Lavellan doubts it. Maybe she's always doubted it. Maybe she always kept a piece of herself guarded, waiting for the moment the blow came. Sera's words are usually good for a laugh, but around Lavellan, they're as good as poison tipped arrows. They always find their mark. The bog unicorn makes its way down the steep mountain. Could Sera have gotten far? Lavellan isn't sure she wants to find her.

_Book. Read elfy stuff for her. _Sera crossed the words out. Of course she did. Lavellan wishes she hadn't gone to the room, hadn't discovered the disaster. Disasters aren't the byproducts of indifference. Now her guts twist painfully. Her hands are freezing. She shivers and keeps going. She isn't sure who she's angrier at. Cassandra, Sera or herself. Didn't they talk about marriage once? It was a joke, maybe. The Dalish wouldn't allow it and she can't imagine her clan accepting Sera. She can hear all the things they'd say about her, to her, in their elvhen tongue. Then she'd raspberry back at them, Lavellan would grow angry and they'd fight again. They always fight. They always make up. _Not this time._

She's angry at herself for not drinking from the Well of Sorrows. If Sera hadn't been there, she knows she'd have done it. _You gave up connecting to Mythal, to your ancestors, to depths of knowledge our people has always sought, to not earn her ire. _The thought makes her sick. She's unsure of where to direct her anger. That hatred. She's let her clan down. She remembers they're all likely dead and grips the reins tighter. Maybe she should leave the Inquisition, too.

* * *

Sera pulls back the arrow tight. A crease lines her forehead but she smiles. Lavellan drips water all over the floor of the small shanty. Some abandoned little cabin they've passed countless times. A small fire burns but it's colder than she would have thought. She can't stop shaking and it has nothing to do with the arrow. "Your Worship," Sera says.

She's never called her that before. She's mocking her. Unlike Lavellan, she does not shake. Her arm is steady. She is strong. It seems impossible but she pulls the arrow back further, to her ear. If loosed, it will pin Lavellan to the wall. "Do you plan to kill me?"

"Think I won't?"

"I think you won't." She hopes she won't, anyway. Sera releases the arrow. It whizzes by fast and with a 'clunk'! sticks to the wall behind her. Lavellan doesn't breathe. Her trembling fingers reach up. The cloak has been torn, her jacket, the shirt beneath. Her skin is intact despite how it burns. She glares. Sera throws the bow to the side. This was a mistake. "Don't you ever—"

"Or what? You'll throw me out of the Inquisition?" She laughs. It isn't a laugh Lavellan recognizes. "Done that already. Don't want you here. So, go on, you. I won't miss again." _This was a mistake._ "Lots of things said last time we saw each other. You here for the other bit? Don't do that. Won't. Not with you, anyway. No matter how good it'd be. All that hate between us. The talky people sent you, right? The Inquisition's already getting too big. Was wrong about you. You're still a little person, doing things for the big people. But little people can be shits, too. Not just the big." She paces in a languid, predatory manner.

Lavellan has not moved a muscle. She didn't come here for the other thing. More than not, she wants to kill her, despite how her heart seems to throb, how she wants to throw her arms around her and beg forgiveness. She'd rather walk away before she did that. Maybe fuck her and leave her. That's what shems do, isn't it? Or lots of people. But she's not people. They're not people. Maybe she only thinks they're different. "Cassandra wants you back." She qualifies. "The others."

"Not my problem. Can't buy a Red Jenny. We work for sport. Would have worked for you but you didn't want it. So I'm gone now. Just the way you said. Here you are, trying to get me back, but I'm the stupid one," her movements pick up speed. She stops abruptly and looks at her, biting back words. "So what is it?" she bursts out.

"The others want you back," she repeats.

"I'm not going. It's too bad cause I like them, yeah? But you. I can't." She glowers at her. "You're a miserable bitch, you know that?" Lavellan flinches. "I tried to get away from you, I did. But every time I did, you'd say something with that lying tongue of yours and trick me into liking you again, trick me into thinking you cared. Why would you do that? You're like Varric, but a shite version, because he lies to not say the good things, but you lie to not say the bad, because you're scared, or a jerk, can't figure it. If you hated me so much, how could you lie so good with your looks and your—and everything!"

"I never lied to you."

"Liar!"

"Sera—"

"No. No. Don't talk. Don't say a thing. You'll say something. You'll use your Honey Tongue and I'll be stupid, stupid, stupid and believe you and want to be with you again. I don't think it's that mark on your hand that makes people follow, it's those lying words. I can't keep being stupid Sera forever, I won't. Got to take a stand, even when it's hard. It's so frigging cold in here and if we weren't apart it could be better, we could be—ugh! Just go." Lavellan doesn't. Sera marches to her and pushes her back. Lavellan stumbles. Sera pushes again, harder until Lavellan's back slams into the door. There's a dull pain at her back but she can only see the glistening in Sera's eyes. "Why did I ever believe in you?" she ducks her face.

Lavellan breathes raggedly. This is more terrifying than any demon or dragon she's been up against, scarier than the Fade. _I don't know why anyone believes in me. _Andraste does not favor her. Mythal does not favor her. She is the recipient of a magic spell gone wrong. "I don't know," she says numbly. "It was nice while it lasted."

"I was just a bit of fun to you. Say something. Say something to make me hate you." Sera takes issue with just about everything she says. It shouldn't be difficult to find something. She can't talk. She can't say anything. The last thing she wants is for Sera to hate her. Instead she reaches out to her, fingers sliding around the back of Sera's neck. It feels so familiar. She pulls her closer but Sera yanks away. "I told you, we don't do that anymore!" Lavellan waits for the slap but gets a bruising kiss instead. Her lips part too willingly. For moments they seem to struggle.

It isn't until her cloak and hunter's jacket drop to the floor, her fingers gliding along Sera's bare breasts that she realizes what's happening. Maybe she's the stupid one. She doesn't know that they should do this. She wants to. She doesn't know that they should. Sera's tongue and lips confuse the matter. Lavellan's cold but she's burning. Shivering. They fall to the small sleeping mat on the floor, only half on it, pressed so tightly together as if trying to become one person. Lavellan wants it but wonders if it's a good idea. Shouldn't they be individuals? But if they were one they'd never fight, think the same, never hurt each other.

Their lust is insatiable, maybe something more, anger, love, battling. There is no part of Sera Lavellan doesn't taste. Sera gasps when Lavellan slides her fingers into her, takes her wrist, invites another finger to join the others before moving her lips soundlessly. Fingers don't seem like enough. Lavellan thinks about souls. She wants their souls to touch. Lavellan seals her mouth with a kiss. She's terrified of anything that might be said. _I love you, I love you, I love you. _

They remain tangled limbs, writhing, pulling sharp breaths and sighs from one another. Maybe it's a competition. One that goes on for hours, until the rain remains but the sun begins to light the sky, a dark blue instead of black. Sometimes they slip. There's something less than anger in their eyes, something softer. Lavellan's legs are unsteady. Her throat is raw. She's satisfied and empty. She wants them to go back to the way they were.

"Not bad," Sera says, "better the other way. This really won't happen again, but I'll go back for the others." Lavellan lies on the ground, exhausted, watching her get dressed, hating herself for the things she can't say. "Better than nothing. More than you deserve."

* * *

She's drunk on pride, triumph and one glass too many of wine. Corypheus is gone and Skyhold is celebrating. Music plays and laughter can be heard everywhere, and the sigh of the collective breath everyone's been holding. There are congratulations everywhere, everyone wants to shake her hand, everyone, already, wants to talk about the future. Lavellan's just happy to be done with it.

She's bruised and her hair is partly singed but she's alive. They're all alive. They made it, somehow. She hopes that with Corypheus gone, an Inquisitor will no longer be needed, she can return to her life—if there's one to return to and she can forget about Sera. _You can try. _

Glass and bottle of wine in hand she ducks out of the festivities and returns to her room. Sera's at the top of the stairs. Any tipsiness instantly vanishes. Lavellan takes the steps up and says nothing. Sera steps aside. It's been weeks and they haven't spoken of what happened in the cabin. They aren't even friends anymore. Solas is gone. She can't help but feel alone. Lavellan curtsies to Sera before righting herself. "Only brought one glass. Sorry."

"That's all right. I'll take the bottle." She does take the bottle but sets it aside. Lavellan looks to it and then to Sera. "Coryphy-face is gone. Gave it to him in the shite-box, yeah?" She shuffles. "So's… when everything first started… with us—I thought about this day a lot. How we'd celebrate. Lots of screwing, no surprise, maybe cookies…" she shakes her head. "But now he's gone. Which is good. Things will go back to normal. The old normal. New normal," she says more quietly. "I can get back to my games." She bites the corner of her lip. "I can go now, yeah?"

"Yes," she says stiffly. Sera has a way of pulling back without moving a muscle at all. She nods, turns. Lavellan bridges the distance between them and takes her wrist. "Wait." She's drunk, she thinks. Sera looks at Lavellan's hand on her arm but doesn't pull it away. "I'm sorry for touching you." Sera parts her lips but thinks better of it and says nothing. Lavellan lets go of her. "I have something to say—if you'll hear it."

"Go on."

The words don't come. Sera moves away again. Lavellan goes around her, blocking her exit. "I'm sorry—please, just give me a moment." Sera steps back, inclines her head and goes further into the room. Lavellan follows. Neither one of them should probably be around staircases. "I didn't mean what I said." Saying the words feels like defeat. "The day… you know the day. I was hurt—and sometimes… you seem untouchable. I—I lashed out." Sera waits, looking at her suspiciously. "I… you're right. And wrong. I… in the beginning—I was afraid of everything. I didn't know what it was like to be around humans and dwarves and qunari and you were like me," she smiles, "so you see—I'm the stupid one—to think that we could be alike."

"And to lay with a city elf, right? I remember that part."

A tremor moves through Lavellan, the brutal reminder of her words. "Sera— I've lied to you." Her mouth is dry and she wants the wine. She resists it. "All those things—all those things you said you loved about me—" she shakes her head. "I am like the nobles. I don't say what I mean. And—I do hide. I've hidden so much of who I am. I didn't drink from the Well of Sorrows. I feel like I've turned against everything I am to be with you. I don't know how it happened," the words come out fainter, "you make me question everything I thought I knew, everything I value. But I can't stop thinking of those things as important. My people are important, my heritage is important. Why couldn't you try to understand? I'm sorry I hurt you. But you hurt me so much. It's a game to you. Asking me to not believe—would be like asking you to forget the little people, to demand that you say that they don't matter, never did—because they're the ones that always lose, aren't they?"

"I didn't ask you to do none of that—!"

"I know. I couldn't help myself. One day of being with you—makes me feel more than I've felt in my entire life. It feels better than being Inquisitor. It feels better than beating Corypheus." Sera's eyes widen slightly. Lavellan steps cautiously closer. "I _love you_. But you don't want me. Not the real me. So I hid it. I can't hide. I won't anymore. It makes me too tired. It makes me too sad." _If you loved me, you wouldn't ask._

A long silence passes.

Sera fills the wine glass but then drinks from the bottle, a long hardy drink until a dribble of red, moves past her lip. She wipes at it with her thumb. "What I said was shite." The words are a blur, all smashed together. The rest comes more slowly. "You know, that day, when you let the Witch drink and you broke my fucking heart. That day. See? Can say it. Won't kill you. Nearly did, the happening." She runs a hand through her hair. "I did mean it. But I shouldn't have said. Not like that. I'm stupid. I'm sorry. I try not to be." She chews on her bottom lip, begins pacing. "Tried to figure it out. Even went to Elfy but he was no help. No one can help. I wrote about it. Thought really hard. I just—I just want us to be people. Not elfy and elfy and hugging trees and running barefoot. I hate your stupid –" she takes a breath, raises her hands, stops herself. "Just let me talk." Lavellan doesn't point out that she's said nothing. "All you Dalish are like 'har har, we're the best, we made it and didn't bend over and take it' right? But it's all 'past this, past that'. The past is rubbish. Can't think of nothing in mine I wouldn't change. When I'm with you—it's… I don't know what you see when you look at me. Some project or something? I don't want to be elfy. I just want to be me. You're not even that elfy. Sure, about the usual stuff—but more like a qunari, the way you just kind of grunt and say things." Lavellan frowns. "I don't want you to change. Not really," she says more softly. "But if you try to change me it means I'm not good enough." Her pacing becomes more purposeful. "I started reading your elfy books and it's not so bad. Sometimes some areas feel weird, yeah? Veil-y, and I don't like that crap, demons hang out in Veils. I don't want anything drawing me to it because your kind, they're never gonna see just an elf, it's always going to be a flat ear. And I don't care about the past. Got enough people think I'm crap. Don't need it from your lot. Even 'us' cookies are just _'us'_ cookies. They're ours. Now. It doesn't change the shite Lady Emmald did. It just made me happy about us. And cookies, because they're good. All I wanted was us and now and the future and being together. Don't need more than that. But you're always looking back and if you're looking back you're not looking at me, and if you're looking back and I'm looking forward, we'll never see each other. Ugh, I'm not making sense."

Air fills Lavellan's lungs. She closes her eyes for a moment. "You're making sense."

"Right then," she fidgets with a bracelet on her hand, "so is it good? Is it fixed? Can we be fixed?" she pouts, not quite able to look at her. "I – could try…" she says stiltedly, "but—if not—just… just let me go, all right? Can't take much more. My heart's a pincushion. Pretty sure Vivi has a doll somewhere."

"We can be fixed," Lavellan takes her hand.

Sera tenses before her fingers twine with Lavellan's. "Really? Sure? Not just fucking with me?"

"Not… fucking with you." Her tongue is still unused to vulgar language, even if it's grown accustomed to vulgar deeds.

Sera smiles, relieved, her body relaxing. "Good. Cause I never really hated you. Tried. Tried really hard and I couldn't."

"Will you stay?"

"If that's what you want. You want to go, I'll go with you," she shifts, settling her hands on her waist. "We'll do this, yeah? Figure it out. I—I want to." Lavellan nods. "So's, you think Vivi really has a doll? Let's give it to Dorian. He can do some magister bwa ha ha on it. Be funny shit." Lavellan arches an eyebrow, doesn't get to speak before Sera presses a finger against her lips. "You really mean all that shite, being with me is better than beating Coryphyspit? So corny! Go write books with Varric! Don't mean it. Can't."

"I meant every word."

"Elfy Creator things," Sera says. Lavellan can't help her smile. Sera mirrors it. "You are going to be the end of me, Honey tongue." Sera kisses her. "Never smiled so hard, so real, till I met you." She pushes her back onto the bed.


End file.
